About Four Million Years
by Grand Marqui
Summary: Bristol, the young man with nothing to live for, finds himself in a nightmare, but to him, is a world overrun by the walking dead truly a nightmare? Follow the tale of Bristol and his three companions as they cross a desolated country, and along the way discover horrible truths about the world... and themselves. Original characters, 60 chapter projection, T for violence later on.


A/N:

Ok, so this story is pretty much its own thing. It shares little with the movie "Zombieland" and is entirely made of original ideas (with exception to one naming detail) and contains leading characters made from scratch, the old fashioned way. This chapter is a prologue, the final editing process will produce the second chapter in a month if we're all lucky.

I hope you enjoy it. (bear with this chapter, a good athlete needs to warm up before sprinting like a pro)

* * *

As he pulled into the long driveway leading to his humble home, the boy let out a miserable sigh. "Goddamn," he said to himself, gazing ahead with a look of exhaustion and disgust. "Goddamn, damn, damn, damn." He sat there staring blankly into the distance, allowing the car to idle as he let his subdued imagination start to trickle creatively once again, a ritual he performed every day after arriving home from the hell he called his job. He began to think once more, something that was never done during the long, eight-hour shift he worked. Such menial labor. Mindless. Mechanical. Instinctual. But with no room to think creatively. This part of the boy's day was always the most relieving and also the most frustrating; the melancholy images of his workplace plaguing his mind until at last he forced them from his head. Finally, he mustered up the strength to stir himself from his trance, turned off the car, and made his way indoors.

Inside, he flicked a switch on the wall beside the basement door, illuminating the concrete cellar in a sickly, pale light that made his eyes hurt. He grimaced as the light bulb flickered occasionally. Damn faulty wiring. As he trudged past a dusty mirror hanging on the wall, he was stopped in his tracks by the eerie reflection looking back at him. His eyes were a deep blue, glazed over by a dark and brooding apathy towards anything and everything in his mediocre existence. It was only at times of pure inspiration that they shone their true, full shade of blue. But in his work uniform, he looked like just another mindless wretch, slowly coasting along on burning fumes and stale lunchbox food. He broke his gaze from the mirror and slowly meandered up the basement stairs to his living room, wherein sat the only other person who he really talked to at all anymore.

"Hi, honey," his mother greeted.

"Hey, mom," the boy replied dourly.

She frowned, hesitant to ask. "Work was that bad again, huh?"

He sullenly turned to look his mother in the eye, "It'll never change."

"You're probably right," she replied with quick wit, much to his dismay. "But you know, life isn't all about working a crappy job at an assembly factory, you know. It may never change, but you certainly will."

"I guess so," the boy agreed dismissively.

"Don't you worry. Soon as you know it, you'll be heading off to college and you'll be meeting new people, making new friends, having new and exciting experiences...it'll be great for you."

He grunted his response.

The boy's mother walked over and gave him a hug and a kiss on the forehead. "It'll be fine. Trust me." He nodded, hardly moved by her words. She was one of the only people left in his life that he could tolerate in the slightest and still he felt an emptiness, even when she tried to be reassuring. A persistent void resided within him, a deep cut into his soul like a black hole ripping at every fiber of his being until one day it would consume him within its darkened depths. Maybe if his father had not left- "So," his mom spoke up, "what do you want for dinner, hon?"

"Doesn't matter to me."

"Hmm, let's see what we've got." She set about preparing their dinner in the kitchen while the boy proceeded sullenly down the long, off-white hallway to the second-story staircase, all the while trying to maintain a fixed gaze on his feet. Along the walls hung photos of his childhood friends, all of which had abandoned him as they grew older. Miranda moved to Ohio under the pretenses that they would keep in touch via snail mail, a promise that was easily broken and never adhered to. Rick and his family left for Australia one summer and were never heard from again, probably due to the fact that Sidney seemed better for their rich and stuck-up blood than Silver City ever was. Anthony: said they could not hang out anymore because of a new religion he had found. Amy: a flat out bitch who stopped talking to him for absolutely no reason whatsoever. And Mark...fucking Mark somehow stole all of the boy's crayons, markers, drawing pads, Legos, CD's, and action figures and continually refuted that they had ever even spoken at all. The boy had asked his mom time and time again to just take the pictures down but apparently she had not gotten around to it yet. Shaking his head at the new frustration of thinking of all his past friends, he turned the corner and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

At the top of the stairwell sat the boy's tiny, calico kitten, whom he had yet to name. "Hey there, little guy," he greeted as he reached down to scratch its fuzzy head. The kitten let out an adorable little noise as the boy's fingers met its fur. The boy could not help but grin at the sound and chuckled to himself. "Aren't you just the cutest thing?" The kitten looked up at him with perfectly round, yellow eyes and meowed again. The boy laughed, "I bet even your life is more entertaining and pleasant than mine, little buddy." He let the thought linger in his mind for a moment before continuing onward to his room, leaving the innocent little animal to its own devices.

The boy's room was quite messy, a trait that seemed to carry itself over from his apathy towards life in general. Clothes, shoes, and assorted knick-knacks littered the ground and made it difficult for anyone but the boy-who knew where everything was in this maze of junk-to walk through. His walls were adorned with posters of his favorite movies, videogames, and bands: Scott Pilgrim, Alice in Wonderland, The Legend of Zelda, even an autographed photo of The Beatles; all these decorations brilliant in their own right. His shelves were lined with many different genres of books. From fantasy to science fiction, graphic novels to poetry compilations. Even books on engineering and mechanics. He had it all. He was very interested in creation: making things out of other things, creating fantastical inventions that defied all modern pieces of work. His imagination was the limit. But he had not created anything in a long time. His mind was stagnating and deteriorating from the monotonous lifestyle he now lived. There was no motivation, no inspiration to drive his wonderful inventions. And as he entered this perfectly disorganized workshop, he did not even notice the potential it held-that he held. He was simply there to change his clothes.

He slipped out of his oppressive factory garments and grabbed a pair of black skinny jeans, a crumpled blue collared shirt, and his battered old Chuck Taylors, outfitting himself in familiarity once more. Comfortable with the way he felt, he decided to take a look in the mirror to see if his image matched. The boy gazed at the reflection staring back at him. A sullen creature stood before him with unkempt, brown hair and a deep frown scarring his face. And his eyes...always jaded with the unfulfilled wishes of a brighter and more enjoyable future. "Well," he said jokingly to his reflection as it mouthed his words, "time to live it up." He let out a short, weak laugh at the sheer sarcasm of the statement, and with a forced smile that faded as soon as he walked away from the mirror, he made his way back downstairs.

In the kitchen, his mother stood over a steaming pan of food, shaking many different containers of flavorings and spices on the meat and vegetables sizzling on its surface. The boy's nostrils were assailed with many different aromas, each lingering a bit before blending perfectly with another, more pungent scent. It smelled marvelous. "What are you cooking?" he asked.

"Doesn't it smell great?" His mother beamed. "It's chicken stir fry. I went crazy with the spices tonight."

"No complaints here," the boy replied. "I'll be downstairs."

"Oh?" his mother said inquisitively. "What'll you be doing down there?" She cast a humorously suspicious eye toward him.

"What do I always do down there?" he asked, knowing well what to expect from his mother's witty mind.

"I don't know. Do I even want to know?" she said wryly.

"Video games, mom," the boy responded, covering his face with his hand. "Get your mind out of the gutter."

She let out a hoot of laughter. "Fine, fine! I'll call you up when dinner's ready then."

"Jeez woman, I think those spices are getting to you."

"Probably. I'll make a note never to combine oregano, pepper, garlic, onion powder, and Italian herbs ever again. Don't wanna go completely bat shit insane."

The boy opened the basement door and proceeded to the cellar. The majority of the basement was unfinished, with gray concrete being the normal appearance all around. There was a tall, conveniently placed refrigerator in this unfinished portion of the cellar, which housed a plethora of different sodas and other assorted beverages. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he decided to check out what there was to drink before making his way to the finished portion of the basement which he so scrupulously referred to as his 'gaming sanctuary.' He grabbed a Pepsi Cola and continued into the fully furnished basement room.

Inside the room sat a full-length billiards table, an average sized couch and a high-definition television. On the walls hung psychedelic portraits of faces made from tiny, stranger illustrations. An ancient elliptical machine stood eternal watch in one corner of the room, gathering dust as both its internal machinations and owner degraded over time. On one side of the room was the washer and dryer and on the other side hung a massive, ten-foot long mirror. To the boy's utter disregard, the room was not strictly his 'gaming sanctuary.' It had served in the past as a makeshift gym, billiards lounge, and now a laundry room. But to the boy, it did not matter. It was where he unwound, where he submerged himself into falsehood and removed himself from reality each day. Pulling back the tab of the soda can produced a satisfying POP and a weary smile spread across the boy's face. He took a swig of the refreshing beverage and plunged himself headlong into what was surely going to be an evening of relaxation and appreciation of the fantastical world of simulated happiness before him.

The game that enthralled the boy to a near inhuman degree was a simple role-playing game. Simple. And disturbing. It was set in a dystopian future, where zombies stalked the earth, and heroic and oftentimes barbaric zombie hunters slayed the monstrosities for glory, riches, and fame. Survival was a key part of gameplay, but due to the ridiculous array of weapons and items the player character could carry, it was more of a passive issue, one that was easily overlooked. It was nearly impossible to die if one knew what they were doing.

The boy's joy was insurmountable as he slayed zombie after zombie, adventuring in an apocalyptic world entirely his own, and yet completely alien to him. He could run, sprint, hop, jump, and swing without exerting any actual energy. He could destroy endless, undead hordes with just a few taps of his fingers. He was unstoppable. He was the god of this world. He was the hero. The scattered human characters in the game praised his heroics with cheers and respect. Money was not a problem, as he could simply use his brawn and tactical prowess to display his superiority in this decayed society. Honored for killing. Praised for heroics. If only life were that simple. The boy's bloodthirsty reverie was suddenly interrupted by a shout from upstairs. "Dinner!"

A crash from outside the door to his basement sanctum broke his brooding anger. Then came screaming from above. "What the-" Another crash, this time from upstairs, and more blood-curdling screaming. The boy jumped to his feet, dropping the sweat-covered controller to the ground. "Oh, shit," he cursed to himself. His heart dropped into his stomach. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought, as he silently ran around the room scanning it for potential weaponry. I need something...anything! Goddamit. The screaming came again with increasing urgency and the boy began to sweat even more. A solid wooden Louisville Slugger caught his eye and he reached for it with a quickness he had not possessed before. Fight or flight. The thought flashed in his mind as he proceeded to the wooden door barricading him in his videogaming temple. He thought it best not to wait. He turned the handle quickly and looked out into the cellar. Terror grasped at him as he saw two mangy-looking men with pale skin mulling about his cellar. They were covered in blood, draped in tattered clothing, and were producing the most awful sounds the boy had ever heard. An escaped gasp of fright caught their attention, and with the most horrible gray eyes they came hurtling towards their new target. Without a moment's hesitation, the boy swung the hard, wooden bat at the oncoming horror, making contact with the creature's pallid skull. Vicious and violent tremors rocked the boy's arm and a sickening CRUNCH reverberated throughout the room. The disfigured ghoul fell in a crumpled heap to the ground, as the second grisly abomination made its way toward the trembling boy. He was running on adrenaline and shock, making for a nightmarish experience as his blood-covered bat broke the skull of the remaining enemy in one deft swing. The creature collapsed on top of its dying companion, and everything was still. The boy's ears were ringing. His vision was blurry. His hands were slippery with sweat. And a foul smell now permeated the room as the boy stood panting over the broken bodies of the fiendish intruders.

He would have stood there for a long while, stiff with trauma at what had just happened, but another scream shattered his stupor. Mom! Fuck, she's still in trouble! He turned to vault up the basement stairs but was halted by another yell, this time a shouted demand. It was muffled but the boy could just make out what was being said through the crashing and moaning of the horrific abominations. "Run, honey! Run as fast as you can! And don't you dare come help me! I'll be fine! Get out while you still can!"

Almost against his will, as if driven by a deep-rooted instinctual urge to get away, the boy obeyed and ran. He ran as fast as he could down the steps, over the bloody corpses, through the basement door, and out into the open world to the only place he could think of: his old tree house, standing ever-watchful at the forefront of the massive forest behind his home. He did not look back. He did not stop. With bloody baseball bat in hand and a mind firing off a thousand thoughts a second, he ran to the ancient towering tree that used to provide for him hours of amusement as a child. He recalled he and Miranda's first excursion to the tree. How he had asked his uncle Mario to build for him the dream house amongst the leaves. How he, Rick, and Anthony played with toy soldiers and action figures inside the wooden fort. How Amy had broken his heart under its verdant boughs by telling him that she did not like him back. And how Mark stole most of the plentiful supplies his friend had stored there over the years. All of these thoughts were tiny, fractured and infinitesimally flaring in his mind until he reached the lofty fortress among the vibrant emerald leaves. With haste he climbed the wooden ladder, now caked with a layer of grime. Forcefully, he opened the solid door, now green and covered in moss. And into the small room he leapt, now dusty and archaic from the passage of time. He slammed the door behind him, letting out an exasperated sigh.

The boy's eyes swept around the enclosure, taking stock of everything that was left available to him in this tiny hideaway. There was a small table in one corner of the shack with a few crude, overturned chairs. On top of the table were strewn pencils and pens of all sizes and colors. There also sat a dust-covered, leather-bound journal with loose leaves of paper sticking out of it, as well as a ragged old teddy bear with a lusterless bow-tie around its neck. Jesus, the boy thought, amongst a million other tinier thoughts, I haven't been up here in ages. On the adjacent wall hung a multitude of colorful, yet dilapidated drawings from the boy's childhood. Incorrectly colored yellow and purple cats, green birds, and blue trees adorned the crispy, ancient paper. Again he recalled his long lost friends, slowly and fully, remembering every detail of their being, picturing their faces in his mind. And slowly the boy was calmed into sadness. His adrenaline rush faded and he felt a strange and foreign dysphoria wash over him as he stood amongst the myriad mementos of his youth. He began to reminisce vaguely of his past, of his childhood. How free he was, to do whatever he wanted and not be bogged down by the boring necessity of a job or money or a college degree. How he wished he could run and laugh and play all day and not have to care about the imminent trivialities of typical adult life. How he wished he actually had a friend to call his own these days. He yearned for adventure. For fun again. The antediluvian remains of days long gone now sat before him, mocking. Jeering. And with almost palpable force and urgency he recognized the bittersweet truth of the situation. He was holed up in the one place that provided nothing for him anymore except painful memories. He could have run anywhere, done anything. Freedom had just been granted to him but he squandered it and forgot about it completely. Now as far as he knew, he was trapped; surrounded by the derisive facade of life he wanted so much. But through all these thoughts, through all this self-hatred and misery, a beacon of insight shone through. The boy knew without a doubt that the boring world he once lived in was long gone, shattered along with the skulls of the two strange and hideous creatures who assailed him; broken and pierced like the bubble he placed himself in day after day. Once again, reality had set in. A reality typically dreaded, but this time, different...new...exciting. He did not need an escape. A wry smile spread across the boy's face as he let go of the past and embraced what the future might hold in its enticing clutches.

_It's about time._

* * *

A/N:

Well that took a while, I'll have chapter I and II ready as soon as my editor gets to work.


End file.
